The Death of Factories

Rust
Chains.
A ceiling collapsed.
Gauges that measure
nothing.

Valves, locked in neglect.
Nothing moves
except the wind.

Birds flit.
Sunlight quietly creeps through broken windows.

You stand.
You listen.
You cry

for the death of factories,
for the memories
of your own broken decay,

And the joy,
overwhelming in this place
of mechanical death.

joy in your journey
from life to death
and back again.

About this poem. 

The New England area where I live is full of abandoned mills and factories. I love to wander through them and imagine what they must have been in their prime, and imagining how much abandonment transformed them to the ruins they are today.

Tom